


Five Times Derek and Alex Almost Get Caught

by Lenore



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 5 Things, First Kiss, M/M, Sublimation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-04
Updated: 2008-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Derek and Alex Almost Get Caught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pun/gifts).



> Big thanks to [](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**barely_bean**](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/) for beta reading, even though this isn't really her fandom. Thanks also to [](http://linaerys.livejournal.com/profile)[**linaerys**](http://linaerys.livejournal.com/) for the prompt. This story is dedicated to my dearest [](http://pun.livejournal.com/profile)[**pun**](http://pun.livejournal.com/)ny who is having a birthday on Friday. Derek and Alex, I'm sure, join me in wishing you the best, most funnest day ever and a fantastic upcoming year.

1.

"So, this is it."

Alex rubs his hands against his thighs, wiping them on his jeans, trying not to be too obvious about it, doing his best to ignore the tilt-a-whirl sensation in his stomach. He spent the last week anticipating Derek's visit, and all day he's been doling out little pieces of his past, showing Derek around the neighborhood, taking him to Manny's for tacos, pointing out his high school and the place under the pier where he had his first girl. But now that they're here at the park where he used to play baseball every day after school, his palms have gone sweaty on him. He's not sure why this is the thing that makes him nervous.

"Cool," Derek says, fingering the chain link of the batting cage.

"I hit my first homerun here," Alex tells him, just to make it clear why this is important.

"First of many." Derek grins.

"Damn straight," Alex says, brimming with cockiness.

And yet, there's still something making him uneasy.

This place has always glowed in his imagination, like one of the holy relics his abuela had such reverence for, but suddenly he's seeing it through Derek's eyes, noticing things he never has before, the scrubby grass and the ancient paint peeling off the benches and the trash blowing around in the outfield.

Derek probably didn't even have to go to the park to practice as a kid. Alex pictures him in a leafy expanse of backyard that bears a striking resemblance to the picture of the Garden of Eden that hung in Alex's Sunday school class when he was a kid. Derek takes pitches from his father, who cheers whenever Derek gets a hit and patiently reminds him to keep his weight back when he whiffs at empty air. His mother comes out to watch, bringing a plate of cookies warm from the oven and an encouraging smile. Everything Derek has ever told Alex about his childhood sounds like it should be on a postcard.

Derek bumps Alex's shoulder, jolting him out of the vision. "I can just see you out here. Doing drills, running your ass off, while the other kids were just screwing around. I bet you were intense even then."

He gives Alex one of those sideways smiles of his, significant somehow, and Alex thinks, not for the first time: So this is Derek. This is _Derek_. Seeing him in pictures, talking to him on the phone, none of that has prepared Alex for the sheer physical fact of Derek's presence, solid and real and right here. Alex is aware of every breath Derek takes, his muscles shifting beneath his T-shirt whenever he moves, the sweat beading on his forehead in the Miami heat. There's been a vibe between them all day, admiration, but not exactly, not only. If it were a girl Alex was paying all this attention to, he'd understand. But this is Derek. This is…he doesn't know what.

_It's just that we have so many things in common_, Alex thinks. _Want the same things, play the same position, hell, we're even the same height._ But while he's trying to convince himself, Alex is staring at Derek's mouth. This isn't the first time that's happened today. From the quirk of Derek's lips, he's apparently noticed. Neither of them looks away, and there's a challenging spark in Derek's eyes, as if he's daring Alex to do something about all this staring. As if he assumes that Alex is too chickenshit.

Alex is _not_ chickenshit, and he stands his ground, shoots the challenge right back at Derek. The corners of Derek's mouth curve up, like he's laughing, and that's just infuriating. Alex takes a big breath to tell Derek off, but then Derek's lips are pressed up against his, warm and firm and undeniable. The breath stutters in Alex's lungs, and Derek's lips part softly, and he drags his tongue along Alex's bottom lip.

Alex doesn't move, not to pull Derek closer or to push him away, his arms tangled up helplessly between them. Derek kisses the corners of Alex's mouth, catches Alex's top lip between his, worrying it gently. Alex shivers, a swampy feeling spreading all through his body. He has been told that this is wrong since he was old enough for it to even be a topic of conversation, and he's never really questioned that before. But this is Derek, and how can Derek be anything but right? Alex raises his arms, winds them around Derek's shoulders, and falls into the kiss.

It's innocent enough to begin with, their lips moving softly, tentatively, and then Alex makes a noise in the back of his throat, and they're off, all over each other, kissing deeply, frantically, as if this is the natural conclusion to everything that's been building between them since they first spoke on the phone. They touch each other through their clothes, on the chest and the arm and the small of the back. Alex is hard, and he pushes against Derek's thigh, even though they're doing this in public where anybody could see them. He closes his eyes, and they're naked inside his head, skin to skin, and Alex can't picture anything he wouldn't let Derek do to him. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't quite so much of a surprise.

He distantly registers the crunch of gravel, but his brain is thick and hazy, and it takes longer than it should to sort out what that noise means. Gravel. Tires. Someone coming. He jumps back from Derek, scans the parking lot in the distance. A police car is pulling in. The door opens, and a cop gets out. He reaches into the back seat for his nightstick, adjusts his hat, and then starts onto the grass. When he notices Alex and Derek, he frowns and heads in their direction.

Cops patrol here, Alex knows that, and there's no reason to believe that this guy saw anything. Alex's heart starts to pound anyway, so hard it makes him feel sick. Pictures flash through his head, his mother having to bail them out of jail, her expression crumpling when she hears that the charge is public lewdness, the call from the University of Miami revoking his scholarship.

It seems to take forever for the cop to reach them. "You boys got some business out here?" he asks, giving them a narrow-eyed look, taking their measure. "'Cause the park's closed." He nods at the sign not ten feet from where they're standing where the hours are posted.

The truth is right there on the tip of Alex's tongue. _We were kissing, and I didn't think I ever would with a guy, and it was blowing my fucking mind._ The fear that he'll accidentally blurt this out half paralyzes him.

So Derek does the talking, his expression all Boy Scout sincerity, "Sorry, officer. I guess we lost track of time. I'm visiting my friend here, and he wanted to show me where he practiced as a kid."

The cop perks up at this. "You all ballplayers?"

Derek nods. "Yes, sir. I'm in AA with the Yankees. And Alex here has a scholarship offer to Miami that he's deciding about."

"The Hurricanes have a good team," the cop says approvingly.

"Sure do." Alex has unfrozen enough to flash a smile, wide and confident, like the big league star he intends to be someday.

"You boys be careful now," the cop tells them. "We've had some trouble here at night lately. That's why we've had to start enforcing the curfew."

"Thanks for letting us know," Derek says politely.

The officer nods and heads back to his car, and a moment later, the car pulls out of the parking lot. Derek smiles wryly, like that was a funny little misadventure. Like he was never really worried. Like he's never been off balance a moment in his life.

Contrariness flares in Alex's chest, and he yanks Derek by the collar of his T-shirt, making him stumble. Derek's eyes fly open in surprise as Alex lays another kiss on him, hot and wet and defiant. Derek needs only a second to catch up, and then he's stroking Alex's cheek and kissing him back. Alex clenches his arms around Derek, and he wants so violently. Wants to have Derek, be him, best him.

He pulls back, blinking and breathing hard. He has the sudden inkling that maybe it's always going to be like this between them.

Derek eyes him speculatively for a moment and then squeezes his shoulder. "Hey, how about we go back to your house and get some more of your mom's _pastelitos_?"

He waits, his hand still resting on Alex's arm, and a smile just comes bubbling up from somewhere in the vicinity of Alex's toes and breaks out brilliantly. Derek smiles back, playful and promising, and it brings the butterflies back to Alex's stomach.

"Come on." Alex jerks his head toward the car.

They don't touch as they walk back across the park, but the awareness, the connection is just as palpable as if they were, pulling and shaping and binding them together. And maybe it really will always be like this.

Maybe that's the best thing that Alex could ever hope for.

 

* * *

 

2.

The hotel room is blandly sterile, the way hotel rooms usually are, and they'd be at Alex's house right now if Alex hadn't given Derek that _look_ after the game, smoldering from beneath lowered lashes, the look that always makes Derek want to tear the clothes right off him and push him down onto the nearest piece of furniture and do dirty, filthy things to him. The hotel was closer to the ballpark, so this was where they'd ended up.

Alex arches up from the sheets, his skin sun-kissed against the stark whiteness of the bed, moaning as Derek worries a place on his neck.

"Tell me," Derek commands.

Alex laughs brightly. "I'm coming after you."

Derek spreads Alex's legs wide, making a place for himself between them. He thrusts, his cock sliding against the inside of Alex's thigh. Alex stares up at him with wide, feverish eyes. Derek is going to fuck him before the night is done, and they both know it.

"Derek," Alex says breathlessly.

It's not _DJ_ or _Jetes_ or _D_, or any of the many nicknames Alex has for him. It's always _Derek_ when they're naked together.

Derek kisses his neck again, sucks, bites down, making Alex buck up against him. "Say it again. Like you mean it."

"I'm going to come after you the next time we fight," Alex says more forcefully, his fingers digging into Derek's biceps.

"Uh-huh." Derek strings kisses across Alex's chest, licks at a nipple, uses the edge of his teeth to make Alex gasp. "What do you think you're going to do with me when you get me?"

During the brawl out on the field tonight, Alex had been supremely unconcerned, happy to stand off to the side with Derek, and let the knuckleheads be knuckleheads. But now, challenge sparks in his eyes.

"You think I can't handle you?" Alex surges up against him, body to body, testing, pushing.

Derek grips Alex's shoulders, holding him down. There is no bigger turn-on than this, having all that coiled power beneath him. Other people are like dominoes, just waiting to fall. Only Alex pushes back, pits strength against strength, makes Derek work for it, makes it so good when he finally gives it up.

Alex moves his hands down Derek's back, fingers catching on skin, sometimes lightly, sometimes pressing in hard, leaving marks, leaving behind evidence that he was there. "I'm going to come after you. I'm going to give it to you."

"Big words. Big words," Derek eggs him on.

And then they're tussling and kissing and rutting together. Making promises, low and rough and heated, about what they're going to do to each other.

"You want me to show you?" Alex wraps his long, powerful legs around Derek's waist, tightening his muscles, making Derek feel the grip, feel his strength. "How I'm gonna get you." He pulls Derek in, their bodies sliding together, their chests and bellies and cocks.

"Yeah," Derek says between kisses. "You better show me."

It's clear that fucking Alex is going to have to wait until later. Neither of them is going to last long enough for that now. Derek shoves his body hard into Alex's, and Alex gives as good as he gets, pushing up against him. Derek's heart is thundering, and the blood is pounding in his ears, and he's going to…

The knock at the door startles them apart. Alex's legs flop back to the mattress, and Derek rolls off him. They both lie there, breathing heavily, staring at the door, hoping that whoever it is will just go away.

"You're not expecting anybody, are you?" Alex whispers, half-accusingly.

Derek gives him an exasperated look and whispers back, "No!"

"Derek?" A voice calls out. "It's Joe. I wondered if I could talk to you."

"Shit!" Derek hisses under his breath and like a lightning shot he's off the bed, grabbing Alex's hand, dragging him up.

"Hey—" Alex protests.

Derek hustles him over to the closet, shoves him inside amidst his suits and dress shirts, and says, "Don't make a sound."

He grabs the complimentary robe off the hanger and slips it on, ignoring Alex's crossed arms and ferocious frowning. He shuts the door, also ignoring the irony that he's just forced Alex back into the closet. Getting caught in the act by Joe Torre is like getting caught by his father and his boss all rolled up in one, and it doesn't matter how legendarily well-adjusted Derek is. Nobody could handle that without being traumatized for life.

When he opens the door, Joe is standing there looking uncomfortable, and a knot tightens in Derek's stomach, because he's not used to Joe looking like that around him. He jerks his head toward the room. "Hey Skip, you wanna—"

Joe nods. "Thanks."

He comes in, takes up a spot by the dresser, leaning against it. "I hope I didn't get you up." He nods toward the unmade bed.

Derek's gaze drops down to the carpet. "Nah. Nah. I was just—" He waves vaguely in the direction of the bathroom.

Joe nods absently. "So, Derek, there's something I wanted to say, didn't feel it could wait until tomorrow."

Derek's shoulders tense. If this isn't about Alex, he can't imagine what it is about. What else couldn't wait. And if it is about Alex…well, Derek has hoped never to find the place where Joe stops being the coolest person he's ever known.

"Go on, Skip," Derek tells him, braced for disillusionment.

Joe takes a breath, and he turns an earnest look on Derek. "Teammates calling out teammates in the media, that's not how I like things handled. You know that. And what Curtis said— well, I just wanted you to know that the organization doesn't share that view. _I_ don't share it. We think you're a hell of a leader, with the way you carry yourself, the way you play the game hard every day. We'll be addressing the situation with Curtis."

Derek just stands there for a moment, all his energy focused on not laughing. Because _that's_ what this is about? Never for one second did he think it would go any other way. That's the confidence you have knowing you're the future of the organization.

"I'm not worried about it, Skip." He gives Joe an easy smile.

Joe's expression relaxes. "Well, good. Good then. I'm glad we got that straight."

Derek claps him on the back, moving him toward the door. "It's all cool, Mr. T. I'll see you at the ballpark tomorrow."

Joe nods. "Have a good—"

A loud crash from the closet stops him in his tracks. He raises an eyebrow at Derek.

Derek thinks about all the ways he's going to _kill_ Alex. "It's just, uh—you know—" He ducks his head and smiles sheepishly. "You know."

Joe shakes his head, in a boys-will-be-boys fashion. "Yeah, I know," he says dryly. "Enjoy your evening."

He heads off down the hall, and Derek closes the door and lets out his breath, because Joe _doesn't_ know. That much is clear. He goes over to the closet and throws the door open.

"What the hell was that?" He glares at Alex.

Alex is naked and still hard and not the least bit sorry for nearly getting them caught, at least if the bright look of mischief in his eyes is any indication. "Lost my balance," he says with a shrug as he steps out of the closet.

"Lost your balance?" Derek puts his hand on his hip.

Alex smiles broadly. "Hey, it happens. So, that was close, huh? I wonder how long he was standing there before knocking. Do you think he heard anything?" He waggles his eyebrows.

"Shut up, shut up!" Derek puts his hands over his ears. "That man is like a father to me."

Alex grins impishly.

Derek shakes his head. "Man. You are one kinky son of a bitch, you know that?"

Alex throws his head back and laughs, easy and certain, like he too has the confidence that comes with knowing he's the future. That does something to Derek, sends needles of want and tenderness all through him. He catches Alex by the wrist and pulls him close and kisses him like the future is his favorite thing of all. Alex looks surprised for a moment by Derek's sudden change of mood, but then he smiles and touches the side of Derek's face and kisses just as eagerly.

Derek pulls back, puts his hand on Alex's shoulders and pushes him down onto the bed. He takes a moment to admire the sight of Alex naked and aroused on the tangled sheets. Then he smiles wolfishly.

"I'm coming after you," he says as he pounces. "I'm gonna get you."

 

* * *

 

3.

Alex has always had a talent for putting blinders on. It's what makes him a good hitter, he often thinks. At the plate, he gets so locked in that he doesn't see anything else but the ball, as if the rest of the world simply ceases to exist. It's a habit that tends to filter into the rest of his life; Alex rarely pays attention to what he doesn't want to know.

This changes when he comes to the Yankees. There's none of the insulating distance he had in Texas, where he could pretend that he and Derek were just going through a rough patch, that things weren't nearly as bad as people liked to make out. Maybe his blinders work too well sometimes, because he'd honestly forgotten what an ice pick to the chest Derek's anger can be, still simmering just as coldly years later. Day after day, he's faced with the reality of what they've become. Sometimes it's cordial and sometimes it's chilly, but there's never any of that sense of forever that they had when they were kids.

Too often at the plate now, it's Derek that Alex sees and not the ball.

This is disastrous for his game, not surprisingly, and after the 2006 season, he knows he has to do something about the Derek problem. One night when he's out on the town, he hits on the solution, a happy accident, so simple that he can't believe he didn't think of it before. It's basic baseball strategy, really. When you don't get your pitch, can't extend your arms and hit the ball into the bleacher seats the way you want to, you do the best you can with what you have, bounce a little chopper over the mound, in-and-out the ball down the right field line. Sometimes, the next best thing is enough to win the game.

Alex comes into camp feeling as if the Jeter-sized weight is finally off his shoulders. Reporters nip at his heels, digging for a quote, probably hoping for some _mea culpa_ about Alex's performance last season. He gives it to them, along with something much, much more print-worthy.

At the first question about Derek, he jumps on the opportunity, "I'm tired of lying to all you guys. The reality is there's been a change in the relationship over 14 years…"

By the time he's finished, there's absolute silence. Jaws have actually dropped. This is something that Derek, PR dream that he is, has never understood, the satisfaction of being a wild card in a world that has all too few surprises in it. The reporters recover quickly enough, and then the barrage of questions starts. Alex answers readily, like he's been waiting forever to unload all this shit. After it's over, he rolls his shoulders, testing. The muscles ripple like water. Not an ounce of tension in his whole body.

Of course, when he reads the newspapers later, he has to wince at the "five nights a week" thing. Had he really said that out loud? Oh well, he decides. That's just the risk you take being a wild card. Sometimes you surprise even yourself. Not that it really matters in the end. People expect ballplayers to behave like grownup children, and the jokes in the sports pages are about treehouses and crank calls, not blowjobs and butt fucking. No one really wants to know the truth about them, or it would have been plastered all over everywhere a long time ago.

Derek has no comment, as expected, and he spends the next day giving Alex dark looks. _When are you ever going to learn to keep your stupid mouth shut?_ Alex just shrugs and smiles, as if to say: _You're you, and I'm me, and we don't do things the same way, and that's not ever going to stop pissing you off._ Derek's eyes widen for just a moment, because this is the place where Alex would normally be falling all over himself with lame-ass excuses and trying to justify his very existence.

Instead, he smiles sunnily. "See ya out on the field."

He doesn't need to glance back to know that Derek is frowning furiously.

 

The team moves north for the start of the season, and every time Alex comes to bat, gravity seems to evaporate. His eyes go bionic on him as if he could see the very molecules of the ball if he really tried. There's nothing constricting his chest, no crushing weight of Derek's expectations and Derek's disappointment and Derek's elusive approval that Alex has never been able to win, no matter how hard he's tried. Alex can finally breathe. He breathes life into every swing of the bat, and the ball leaps for him, over the head of the second baseman, down the right field line, over the fence into the bullpen, halfway to the moon.

Three weeks into April, he's tied the record for the most homeruns in the month.

Derek comes over to him after the game that night. "Pretty good hitting out there." His mouth quirks up at the corner, ironic with understatement, and a little grudging because things are the way they are between them, and maybe there's some admiration too because Derek will always love the game even if he doesn't love Alex anymore.

And the thing is: it's okay. It really is. Alex claps Derek on the back, the way he'd do with some stranger at a celebrity golf tournament. "I'm just glad to be helping the team."

From the car, he calls Cynthia. "Hey, babe, the guys want to go out for a drink. Celebrate. You know. The homerun thing." Alex ducks his head a little sheepishly. He can talk about his records without the least embarrassment to everyone but his wife. "I told them we had plans for dinner…"

"Go on, sweetie. We can have dinner tomorrow. You can't disappoint the guys." He hears the smile in her voice. She's always encouraging him to make friends on the team. "Have fun."

Alex takes the Third Avenue bridge into Manhattan, the West Side highway downtown. On an industrial-looking block by the river is a building like a fortress, blocky and made of gray stone with seemingly no way inside. Alex slows down, pulls into the entrance to a belowground parking garage you'd never notice if you didn't know it was there.

A valet nods as Alex gets out and hands over the keys. "Good evening, Mr. Rodriguez."

Inside, a hostess in a red halter dress greets him with a glass of his favorite Scotch. "Talia will be right with you."

Alex takes a seat in the private lounge, leans back into the dark, rich scent of expensive leather and sips his drink. It's not long before Talia joins him, her hips swaying as she walks over to him, her breasts brushing his arm as she bends down to kiss him. She's wearing something black and low-cut and expensive, all the New York sophistication that money can buy. But if Alex squints, he can see the ghost of blue frosted eye shadow and a Tasty Freeze uniform. Maybe that's why this is so therapeutic. There's never any lurking fear that despite all the evidence to the contrary she's secretly, intangibly better than he is.

Talia takes his hand and leads him down the hall to their usual room.

"Make yourself comfortable," she tells him with a wink and heads into the bathroom.

He takes off his clothes and lies face down on the bed and closes his eyes. After a while, the mattress dips beneath Talia's weight, and she fastens a blindfold in place. There's a soft noise as she opens the cap of the massage oil bottle, and then she's digging into his muscles, pressing hard with her thumbs. Her hands are large for a woman's, strong and capable, not like Derek's of course, but close enough that Alex can pretend. He relaxes into the touch.

"You were amazing out there tonight," Talia breathes against the back of his neck. "This whole season. I'm so proud of you."

Alex closes his eyes tighter, imagines another voice.

Talia works her hands lower, flirts with the dimple at the top of his ass, a tease, just like someone else Alex knows. She runs one finger along his crease, and he spreads his legs wider.

"I miss the way it was when we were kids," her voice is a soft, low purr. "The way we used to talk, the way we laughed. I miss you."

She presses her finger against his hole, into his body, and he moans.

"You're so beautiful," she whispers. "I've never wanted anybody the way I want you."

She crooks her finger, finds the sweet spot, and Alex moans louder. He's hard, making a mess of the sheets, and he pushes his hips into the mattress, trying to get some friction.

"I may not say it," Talia tells him, "but you have to know I think about it. You break the homerun record, and I pass Pete Rose, and the two of us will go down in Yankees history together, our names in one breath, forever, until the end of time. You have to know how much I want that."

Talia mouths kisses across his shoulder blade and adds another finger. The fullness feels so good that Alex clenches his hands around the pillow and murmurs, "Please."

She bites his neck. "I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to make you feel so good."

She pulls away, and there's the rustling of the harness, the click of snaps. Alex sucks in his breath like he's just run a hundred laps around the stadium. His heart is pounding so hard he can taste it in the back of his throat. Talia puts a hand on his back, guides him so his knees are pulled up under him and he's spread open wide. He whimpers at the blunt touch of the fake dick against his hole.

"Just breathe, baby. You know how much you love it when I fuck you. I'm going to take good care of you."

The pressure builds and builds as the dick breaches his body. Alex moans out loud.

"Alex," she murmurs, and the mix of pleasure and pain makes it that much easier to hear the word lower and smoother and achingly familiar.

"Please!" he gasps, trembling.

"I forgive you," she croons to him, pressing deeper into his body. "And I want you back. I want you so much."

She pulls out and pushes back in, and he bites his lip hard against the desperate, trembling urge to call out for what he wants.

Talia fucks him steadily, those square, capable hands gripping his hips.

"Just let go," she coaxes him. "Let go. Let me take care of you. Let me love you."

Alex makes a half-strangled noise in the back of his throat. He just can't help it.

Talia rubs her hand over his back. "I do, you know. I love you, Alex. I always have. Always will."

The word he's been choking back since the first touch rises up insistently in his throat, and he fights it back, shoves it down, because this little sublimation ritual of his may be kind of pathetic, but he does still have some pride left.

"Come on, come on," Talia urges him.

Alex clings to his willpower by his fingernails.

"Say it. You know you need to." She brushes a kiss against the back of his neck. "Tell me what you want."

"Oh, God." Alex shakes like he's going to fly apart. "_Derek_!"

Just saying the word hurts him, and Talia is right. That's exactly what he needs. Now that he's given in to it, he can't stop. He chants Derek's name brokenly, and Talia goes on murmuring encouragement and fucking him. Alex gets his hand on his dick, working himself frantically, and then he's coming. Coming apart.

Afterwards, Alex gulps down air, shaky and overwhelmed. Talia pulls out of him gently, takes off the blindfold, pretends not to notice what a wreck he is. She's dependable that way. Never asks him why he doesn't just hire a man for the job. Saves him from having to offer up some ridiculous bullshit. _It's not guys. It's just Derek._ Saves him from having to admit the pitiful truth. _That would feel too much like cheating._

Talia goes to the bathroom and comes back with a washcloth. She cleans him up and pulls the sheet up over him.

"You want to chill out for a while?" She brushes her hand across his forehead, almost motherly.

He nods, wordless, because his throat feels frozen.

"Okay, baby." Talia kisses his cheek.

She starts for the door, and who knows what makes her hesitate, but when she turns back around, Alex can tell that her perfect professionalism is going to falter for once. She's going to say something he really doesn't want to hear.

"Why don't you just tell him?" she asks.

He gives a little shrug. Here is one truth he has no intention of blurting out. That he _has_ told Derek, so many times.

 

In the car on his way home, Alex feels bottomed out, empty, calm. He thinks "Derek" as a test, and there's no dull ache in the pit of his stomach. He pictures Derek's face, his body, the way he charges the ball on a softly hit grounder. There's no sense of being haunted by the ghost of things that used to be his. Alex takes a breath and lets it out. All he ever needed was an outlet, it seems.

 

The kink in Alex's plan is that it works maybe too well. Day after day, he breezes past Derek in the locker room with a carefree smile and a light heart. No more chasing after him like some kind of chump, hoping against hope for some little crumb of…something. Derek may be his grand slam to win the World Series, but Talia is his respectable double to the gap in right center. You take what you can get. Alex has made his peace that.

Only Derek, the fucker, picks now to suddenly start giving him the time of day again.

Alex doesn't even realize it's happening at first. _Nice suit. It's new, right?_, Derek remarks one morning when they run into each other as they're walking into the stadium. Derek has never really cared that much about clothes, to the point that he can barely dress himself really, but Alex doesn't think too much about it. A few days later, they're out in the field, going over how they're going to play the next pitch, and Derek stands so close it's as if he wants to be number 13. Alex writes it off as Derek just being keyed up about how much the team has been sucking lately.

But then, Derek starts sitting next to Alex on the bench, including him in those bright smiles—well, when there's something to smile about. He even manages to high-five Alex after he's hit a homerun without getting that constipated look that says he's only doing it because his parents raised him right.

Finally, during batting practice one day, Alex finds himself clustered around the cage, waiting his turn to hit, laughing his ass off as Derek tells a story about Larry Bowa involving a bag of skittles, a trip with his grandchildren to the petting zoo, and a llama with a sweet tooth. No one makes fun of his teammates quite as hysterically as Derek does. And somehow, Alex ends up with his hand on Derek's arm, so far into Derek's space it's as if he wants to be number 2, and Derek isn't pulling away. He's leaning in, and Alex can feel Derek's breath against his cheek, and he can't seem to stop staring at Derek's mouth. He knows that mouth. He's had that mouth. He stares even harder, and Derek doesn't miss it. There's a spark in his eyes that says he knows exactly what Alex is thinking, and still, he doesn't look away. Alex imagines Derek's mouth on his, so vividly he can feel it, and something shivers through him, sharp and electric.

It's hope. Fuck. The last damned thing he needs.

Almost immediately, he goes into a slump. The ball just seems to appear out of nowhere, like he should have a seeing eye dog up there at the plate with him. Hard liners, that only a few weeks ago would have landed safely on the outfield grass, get snagged by the second baseman. Long fly balls die on the warning track. The sports pages fill up with speculation that his hot start was just an April fluke.

In Toronto, he makes a frantic call to Talia, "I need a house call. Or a hotel call. Whatever. It's an emergency."

"Sure, baby. No problem," she tells him. "I'll catch a flight and call you when I get in. You can tell me where to meet you."

After the game, he gets a text from her that says she's at the airport. He texts her back to meet him at this strip club he knows. He went 0 for 4 tonight, and he needs to get rid of the bitter buzz in his blood before he can sink into the comfort Talia has to offer. Outside the club, they run into each other, and Alex follows her inside. After a few drinks, some fine-looking dancers and Talia's hand getting frisky under the table, he's ready to take her back to his room.

The next day, Alex gives her a huge tip and sends her back to the airport in a limo. It's only after breakfast that he sees the cover of the _Daily News_, a huge picture of him and Talia and the screaming headline: Stray-Rod. He grabs up the paper and throws money at the newsstand guy, tears it open, and things go from bad to worse. _A-Rod likes the she-male, muscular type,_ he reads. Not even true. Talia is petite and curvy. Which fills him with the paranoid terror that somehow, someone knows what he was doing with her. That Derek might know. He stands on that Toronto street corner for who knows how long, as close to hyperventilating as he's ever been in his life.

His phone rings, and he checks it absently. It's Cynthia, a reminder that he has more than one thing to worry about.

"Hey, babe," he tries to sound breezy.

There's silence on the other end of the line, icy and cutting.

"It's not what you think," he says feebly.

"Just tell me the truth, Alex. Who is that woman? What does she mean to you?"

"Nothing." But his voice cracks, because denying Talia cuts too close to denying Derek.

"Yeah?" she says stonily. "Well, maybe that's what you'll find when you get home."

The phone goes dead in his ear. _She doesn't mean it_, Alex tells himself. Although to be safe, he makes a note to buy her something nice, smooth the way a little. He figures one of the Virgin Islands should just about do it.

He spends the rest of the morning on damage control, getting advice from his PR people, talking to the media waiting for him at the ballpark. He swears he can see smug enjoyment in their faces, another chance to tear him down, how they love that, but he swallows down the anger, keeps his tone even, makes sure his "I'm sincerely sorry" expression is firmly plastered on. With each successive question, the knot in his stomach tightens a little more. _I'm not going to comment on my personal life_, he tells them. _But I can say that this will in no way be a distraction for the team. I would never allow that to happen._

He feels the sweat on the back of his neck and hopes that no one notices. It's like waiting to be punched, the way he's braced for someone to ask: _So, is it true that the woman in the picture is actually a call girl you've hired to help you work out your demons where Derek Jeter is concerned? We've heard reports that a strap-on is involved. Would you care to confirm or deny that?_ No one does ask, though, and the press conference finally ends, and for a moment, Alex feels almost lucky.

The last obstacle to get past is Derek. Alex trudges into the locker room, none too eager to face him. He can just imagine the look Derek will give him. _You're not just embarrassing yourself when you do shit like this, you know. You're embarrassing the team._ Or if Derek does somehow know the real story…well, that will be really ugly. Alex prepares his side of the argument, even if it's not entirely fair. _None of this would have happened if you'd just forgiven me. It was a stupid, dumb-ass mistake, and I don't know why I said it, and I've been begging you for years._

Alex changes into his uniform, his eyes down, making it clear he's not in the mood, and everyone keeps their distance.

Everyone but Derek. He stops at Alex's locker on his way out to the field.

Alex goes tense, waiting for it, the jaw-punch of Derek's disapproval, his own hands curled into fists around his glove.

But Derek just claps him on the back. "Hit one out of here tonight, huh?"

He jogs off, and Alex stands there, staring after him. Did Derek Jeter, Mr. Perfection himself, just give Alex a pass? Apparently Derek can be something of a wild card too. And just like that, all the tension of the morning flows out of Alex. _This whole thing will blow over in a couple of days_, he thinks, _and Cynthia will forgive me, and it'll all be fine._

Derek has always had the ability to make things better. Alex thinks back to when they were close and he'd call Derek with some head trip he was doing on himself, and Derek would say just the right thing to talk him down. Memories of those good old days swamp him with nostalgia, with tenderness, with the absolute certainty that there will never be anyone else like Derek for him. Just like that, the familiar dull ache returns to the pit of his stomach, more insistent than ever, as if it has no intention of going anywhere anytime soon.

Alex sighs with resignation. Apparently, Talia just lost her job. He can only hope his batting average doesn't suffer too much.

 

* * *

4.

Alex ducks his head around the wall of the shower. "If I'd been there, I would have stopped him."

"Mmm-hmm," Derek says absently.

He has no idea what Alex is talking about and doesn't stop soaping up long enough to ask. He's the last one to hit the showers, none too happy that reporters kept him jibber-jabbering about the painfully obvious for so long. Alex will get to the point eventually, he figures.

"One punch. I would have laid him right out." Alex comes closer, right up to the edge of the shower spray.

Derek shakes his head. "Berg's been telling his story, huh?"

After Alex left the game, his quad acting up on him again, Ensberg had come in, just in time to play offensive lineman to some deranged fan who came charging onto the field to chat with Derek. He'd been ridiculously pleased with himself about it, so Derek hadn't bothered to point out that everyone in this city wanted a piece of him, that they had for years and years, and he'd never had any trouble taking care of himself.

"I would have thrown myself right in front of that guy, kept him off you," Alex insists.

"Uh-huh."

Derek doesn't remind Alex just how well he's fared in fistfights in the past. It's the thought that counts, after all.

"He'd have been one sorry psycho." Alex nods with certainty. "Did he say anything to you?"

Derek shrugs. "Something about me being cute."

Sometimes, winding Alex up is just too much fun to resist.

As expected, Alex's expression darkens considerably. "Should'a been me out there," he mutters.

Derek turns to him, some little teasing comment in mind, but the look on Alex's face chases it away. It's the same look he gets when he goes up to the plate with the bases loaded, intense and determined and like nothing else in the world matters. That's really kind of…sweet. Kind of hot, too. That's what Derek's dick seems to think, anyway.

"You'd do that for me, Alex?" Derek drops his voice down, low and intimate. "Fight off the crazies?"

Alex's eyes get big and round at the sight of Derek's hardening cock. "Yeah, yeah," he whispers urgently.

Their honeymoon period has been going on for months now, and they've sworn to keep this, _them_, out of the locker room. Derek's never been one for recklessness. Still, they're not technically doing anything, not even touching each other. He rubs his hand over his belly. "What else would you do for me?"

"Anything." Alex licks his lips. "Everything."

"Yeah?" Derek traces a finger along the length of his erection.

Alex nods, staring like he's mesmerized. "I got your back, no matter what. I'd protect you."

There's urgent sincerity in Alex's voice, and it's clear that in this moment at least, he believes what he's saying, believes it utterly. Something sharper stirs beneath Derek's playfulness, something implacable and possessive, a part of him that wants Alex to prove it and prove it and go on proving it.

He palms his hard-on, pushing into his fist, an invitation to continue.

"I'd hit one out for you, take an error for you, win a championship for you." Alex's voice grows more feverish the more carried away he gets. "I'd get down on my knees, right here, blow you in front of everybody."

Derek tightens his grip on his dick, bites his lip to hold back the pleasure noises he wants to make. Alex inches closer, moisture catching on his eyelashes, like maybe sacrificing his Armani to the shower is something else he's willing to do for Derek.

Derek shifts a little closer, like maybe forgetting to be careful for once in his life is something he's willing to do for Alex. His hand works faster, harder on his dick, and he's leaning forward for a kiss, and he's going to come, going to come…

"Hey Jetes, tell Alex how I saved you from that nut job," Berg's voice booms off the tiles. "He doesn't want to believe me."

Derek just manages to whirl around in time, coming against the wall, as Berg rounds the corner into the shower.

"My hero," Derek says over his shoulder, sarcastic and breathless.

"Guy didn't have a chance," Berg blusters on. "Good thing I was out there, huh?"

Neither Derek or Alex says anything. Coming down from an orgasm makes Derek even more laconic than usual. Alex can't concentrate for shit when he's turned on and left hanging.

Berg, a late addition to the clue bus, finally seems to sense that there's some kind of vibe in the air. "Oh, hey, am I interrupting?" He looks from Derek to Alex and misinterprets what he sees. "'Man, sorry! I totally didn't mean it was good that Alex wasn't out there today. 'Cause, you know, it so wasn't." He shifts his weight awkwardly, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "You're gonna be back in the lineup before you know it, A."

Derek turns off the water and wraps a towel around his waist. "Yeah, I'm sure Alex is going to be getting some action real soon." His mouth curves up in a teasing smile.

Berg grins, not getting it. Alex blinks, his expression dazed, as if Derek just reached into his pants and squeezed his dick.

Derek walks off smiling. He can feel Alex eyeing his ass all the way to his locker, the sensation like hands, hot through the terrycloth of the towel.

Yep, winding Alex up is all kinds of entertaining.

 

* * *

5.

Traffic on 95 is snarl-free for once, and Alex navigates on autopilot, staring at the road ahead without paying much attention to it. Beside him, Cynthia is talking about plans for decorating the nursery. Alex nods at random intervals, not really listening, but the steady flow of her voice is easy, soothing. Whatever she wants to do with the baby's room is fine with him.

The phone rings, and he answers.

"Hey." The word jolts in his ear, familiar and unexpected.

There was a time back in the day when Derek called all the time just to check in, and then for years they hardly talked at all, and then a few months ago, around the time he re-signed with the Yankees, the ice finally seemed to thaw, although Alex still couldn't say why exactly. All he knows is: Derek has started calling again.

Alex takes a breath. "Hey."

There's a pause and a rustling noise, as if Derek is getting comfortable, stretching out on that big leather sofa of his, Alex imagines, in no hurry to get to the point of the conversation. DJ has never had a problem with silences. That's all Alex.

At last Derek says, "So. What're you up to?"

"Just going out to dinner. This place Cynthia read about."

"Yeah?" It's completely inflectionless, pure Derek, the way he always sounds whenever Cynthia's name comes up.

"Been busy?" Alex asks.

"Oh. You know. A little of this, a little of that," Derek says, a mischievous spark in his voice that makes Alex reflexively clench with jealousy, and then Derek asks, "You up to anything this weekend?"

"Got this _Men's Vogue_ thing on Saturday," Alex says and adds, completely unnecessarily, "They're coming to the house."

"Mmm."

There's silence again, and Alex fights off the urge to fill it with babble.

"Well," Derek says at last. "See ya."

"Yeah. Sure. See ya."

When Alex hangs up, Cynthia asks, "Who was it?"

"Just Derek." The words stick in his throat, a contradiction in terms, like saying _just everything_.

Cynthia doesn't seem to notice. She goes on talking about the baby's room. Alex takes the exit for the restaurant, but all he sees is Derek.

 

After the travesty of the post-season, after the mess of the negotiation, the fuck-up of the announcement being made during the World Series, after Alex had finally gotten it all straightened out, he called Derek to confess his sins. He's never been much good at admitting when he's wrong, not even as a kid, so it's funny, not in the ha-ha way, that for years now his conversations with Derek have consisted largely of: "I'm sorry."

This one was no exception.

He didn't even manage to say hello before blurting out, "I'm sorry I sucked against Cleveland, okay? And I'm sorry about the thing with the announcement. And the whole negotiation thing. Not that I appreciated that comment about the Steinbrenners always meaning what they say. What kind of bullshit was that? But. Anyway. I fucked up. And— I wish I hadn't."

He was out of breath by the time he'd finished, and he gulped down some air.

Derek took his time answering, as always. "I didn't do any better in the playoffs than you did." Something relented in Derek's voice, completely unexpectedly, something that had been strained for so long now that Alex barely remembered it any different, and then Derek turned dryly humorous, "We both really sucked."

Alex laughed, loud and genuine and right from the gut, such a relief. "About the contract thing— I never wanted—"

"I'm glad it turned out okay," Derek said. "I'm— It's good you're coming back. We're a better team with you."

No matter how bad things ever got between them, Derek always managed to say the right thing when the situation called for it—_nice play_ and _congratulations on the MVP_ and _I hope you and Cynthia will be happy_. Always polite, that DJ, even in his hatred. But this, now, was different. There was something _real_ in Derek's voice, no mistaking it, and Alex had the giddy rush of being allowed behind a door that was mostly kept locked, the way he always used to feel when they were close. Yearning hit him hard, and for a long moment, he couldn't catch his breath.

"So," he said finally, licking his lips. "I guess I'll see you in spring training?"

"Hey, you never know," Derek said with that familiar amusement in his voice, "you might see me before then."

 

It's not quite nine on Saturday morning when the _Men's Vogue_ people show up at the door. Alex lets them in and plasters on a welcoming smile and offers them coffee. Cynthia has reminded him at least three times to do that.

"It'll seem hospitable," she said, as if it matters what these people think of them.

After coffee is doled out, Cynthia says brightly, "How about a tour of the house?"

The magazine people jump at the chance, no surprise there, and Alex trails along after the group, playing host with all the charm he can muster. He shows off his awards and the big screen TV and family photos from his childhood, framed and displayed on a shelf. Sometimes, it seems perfectly natural that strangers want to hear all about the minutiae of his life, and then there are times like this.

When the tour is over, they get down to business. The magazine people bring in their equipment and decide they'll do the pictures first, followed by the interview. Cynthia points them to rooms where they can set up. The stylist spirits her away to do her hair and makeup.

One of the assistants tells Alex, "They've got wardrobe in there." She points to a spare bedroom.

Alex nods absently. "Thanks."

He heads into the room and stops in his tracks. There's a rack of clothes, bags with sweaters and shoes, a basket of sewing supplies. And Derek.

"So, you need help getting dressed now, huh?" Derek smirks. "How about this?" He pulls a crisp, white shirt from the rack, throws it onto the bed.

Alex is too surprised to say anything. He closes the door and moves further into the room, closer to Derek, until they're in reaching distance of each other. Derek has this little half smile, and he watches Alex steadily, not looking away, hardly even blinking. It reminds Alex of the first time they kissed, only the expression in Derek's eyes is more inquisitive than challenging. Whatever Derek sees, it must be some form of "yes," because he hooks his hand around Alex's neck and pulls him in.

The kiss is soft, restrained, a test of the waters, and when Derek pulls away, his eyebrow is raised like a question mark. Alex can feel Derek's breath against his lips. Stopping this right now would be the wise thing to do, with a house full of reporters and his wife two rooms away and the door not even locked. No one has ever accused Alex of being any too wise, though. He lunges at Derek, tangling up his hands in Derek's shirt, kissing frantically, deeply, until his lungs burn. Derek's hands move over him proprietarily, and he cups Alex's jaw, kissing back just as fiercely.

Alex's mouth is tingling when they finally break away from each other, and he's already hard. Belatedly, it occurs to him to ask, "What are you doing here?"

Derek shrugs. "Somebody has to get you ready for your photo shoot."

"Funny." Alex can't help grinning, though, big and wide. He doesn't even care that he probably looks like a fool.

Apparently, Derek isn't kidding about playing wardrobe assistant. He picks up the shirt from the bed. "I like white on you." His voice drops lower. "Like the way it looks against your skin."

He reaches underneath Alex's shirt, hands settling at his waist, thumbs stroking in circles, making Alex shiver. It almost feels like Alex is in a trance as he lifts his arms, letting Derek strip off his shirt. Derek lays his palms flat against Alex's belly, gliding them slowly up his skin. Alex's chest rises and falls sharply. Derek scratches at a nipple, traces the hollow beneath Alex's collarbone with his thumb.

Then he takes a step back. "Now for that shirt."

"Bastard," Alex breathes out.

DJ grins. Always the tease.

He slides the shirt onto Alex's shoulders, leaves it hanging open. "Nice look."

The soft touch of cotton feels incendiary on Alex's skin. Or maybe that's just the way Derek is looking at him.

"I don't think they're going to want you wearing jeans." He slips his fingers beneath Alex's waistband, toys with the button. His gaze flicks up from Alex's cock to his face, another question.

Alex nods.

Derek pops the button, lowers the zipper. The noise sounds huge in the quiet room. He skims the jeans down Alex's legs. Alex holds onto Derek's shoulder as he steps out of them.

"Black silk, huh?" Derek fondles Alex's hip through the fabric of his underwear, grinning.

Alex's brain isn't exactly up to making snappy comebacks right now, and there's not much of a chance anyway as Derek quickly sinks to his knees. He slides the underwear down Alex's legs. Derek rubs his cheek, stubble rough, against Alex's thigh, his hair just barely brushing Alex's cock. Teasing him again, and Alex curls his fingers into Derek's shoulders and tugs impatiently. Derek smiles and bends his head and then it's all hot and tight and wet around Alex's cock.

He feels vaguely sorry for all the people who have never had Derek Jeter's mouth on them. He hates the guts of everyone who has.

Derek pulls back, just long enough to whisper, "You gonna think about me when they're taking your picture?"

Alex moans, and Derek grips his hips, works magic with his tongue. _You gonna think about me?_ Every touch of Derek's mouth seems to repeat the question. Alex digs his fingers into Derek's arms, thrusts into his mouth.

"Derek!" he gasps.

He comes so hard the edges of his vision go dark.

Afterwards, Derek cleans him up with tissues and pulls his underwear back up. "Somebody's gonna come looking for you." He grabs the first pair of pants off the rack.

Alex puts them on, and Derek buttons up the shirt. He looks into Alex's eyes for a moment, kisses him, and then he's moving away, putting distance between them. Alex doesn't understand why until the door swings open, and Cynthia comes in.

Her forehead creases at the sight of Derek. "Oh. I didn't realize—"

Derek ducks his head and smiles endearingly. "I should have called first, but I was in the neighborhood, and wanted to surprise Alex." He reaches for a bouquet of flowers that Alex hadn't even noticed. "Congratulations, by the way."

Cynthia is no more immune to Derek's charm than Alex has ever been, and surprise transforms into a bright smile as she takes the flowers. "It's great you could stop by. I know Alex is glad to see you." She shoots a pleased glance Alex's way. She understands how much he's missed Derek, if not exactly why. "We just have this interview to do, and then how about lunch?"

Derek shakes his head. "I gotta get going. But thanks."

Cynthia wrings a promise out of him to come back the next time he's in town and have dinner. Alex walks him out. They pause at the door, but even Alex isn't reckless enough to risk a kiss now.

Derek smiles crookedly. "See ya at spring training."

It sounds remarkably like forgiveness.

 

The interview comes out at the end of March, and as soon as it hits the newsstands, Alex's friends call him up to rib him about it. _That picture. Pappi. You thinking dirty thoughts or what?_ Alex just laughs it off, but he keeps a copy of the magazine in his nightstand drawer. When he's alone, sometimes he'll take it out, stare at himself, at the way Derek makes him look.

It's the last days of spring training, and Alex is almost sorry. Everything has been so free and easy between him and Derek, like it was when they were kids. He doesn't want the pressures of the regular season to change that. The locker room rings with the familiar chaos of guys talking, music blasting, friendly teasing. Alex ties up his cleats and heads out to the field. Derek is already standing at the railing of the dugout, staring out at the grass like he's meditating.

Alex goes to join him. "Hey."

DJ nods, and Alex hooks his arms over the railing, looks out at the horizon, trying to see what Derek sees, but the world will never have quite the same shape for him.

"You ever think about how long we'll have this?" Derek asks almost wistfully.

Alex shrugs. "The rest of our careers, anyway."

Derek turns to Alex, his smile quick and pleased, and there's something in his eyes that Alex recognizes, because he's had the same thought himself, so many times, a vision of their numbers painted on the wall at the stadium, copper plagues side by side in Cooperstown. Derek will never admit it, of course, because he's...Derek. That doesn't mean he doesn't want it just as much. _You break the homerun record, and I pass Pete Rose, and the two of us will go down in Yankees history together, our names in one breath, forever, until the end of time._

Derek bumps Alex's shoulder playfully. "So. I saw the magazine." His smile gets wider. "You thinking about me?"

_Play it cool, play it cool_, Alex tells himself, but it's like he's missing the gene for that. The undeniable truth just comes bubbling out of him.

"I'm always thinking about you."


End file.
